


Breakdown

by osprey_archer



Series: Reciprocity [17]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Mental Breakdown, Paranoia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-16 00:14:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3467306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osprey_archer/pseuds/osprey_archer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve has a nervous breakdown. Fortunately, Sam and Natasha are there to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breakdown

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [littlerhymes](http://archiveofourown.org/users/littlerhymes/pseuds/littlerhymes) for betaing this!

“It was a good speech,” Sam said. 

Steve pressed his sweaty forehead against the cool wooden table and concentrated on not being sick again. 

“It was,” Sam insisted. “It probably wasn’t exactly what the Georgetown trustees were expecting from a commencement speech – ”

Steve snorted. 

“Did you just make it up on the spot? It didn’t sound much like the speech you practiced at my place.” 

“Yeah, well.”

Steve had never feared speeches before. But this time he had not only written the speech ahead, but practiced it over and over till he had it memorized. Usually he relied at least a little (or a lot) on improvisation, but his brain was such a mess these days, he thought that he’d probably just end up standing tongue-tied on the stage if he tried. 

And then he had been on the stage, giving that speech. It sounded good, he knew. His brain might feel mechanical, but his voice still had that Captain America vigor; it was as if he were listening to a recording of himself, talking propaganda for a newsreel. Looking down on himself from above: a Captain America puppet, pulling his own strings to make himself dance. The graduates politely listening, or more likely politely not listening, bored out of their skulls. 

So Steve cut the strings. 

It had become a good speech after that. He remembered it better than he remembered many of his other speeches, actually, because he hadn’t actually been giving it; his body had been talking, and he had remained watching somewhere up among the rafters. Freedom withers without truth, evil festers in secrecy, et cetera et cetera. 

Steve didn’t think Coulson would be very happy about the speech when he saw it on Youtube. 

Steve hadn’t quite come back to himself until he found himself eating canapés at a post-commencement cocktail party, smiling politely as a trustee ribbed him. He finished his vol-au-vent, made his excuses, and slipped away to this unused conference room to collapse, and all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put him back together again. 

“Steve,” said Sam. His voice had changed: gentler but firmer, too. “Will you look at me?”

Steve propped his head up on his fist. He couldn’t meet Sam’s eyes, so he looked around the conference room instead. An oblong dark wood table, a water cooler burbling in the corner. A long window stretching the length of the wall. It was getting dark outside. Commencement had ended hours ago; he and Sam really ought to pack up and go. _Back to SHIELD_ , he thought, but that wasn’t true: he had another speech to give at Princeton in a week, another week before he had to go back – 

“Excuse me,” said Steve, and strode across the hall to the bathroom. 

There wasn’t much left to throw up this time. He rinsed out his mouth and came back to sit at the table with Sam again. “I didn’t know you could get sick,” Sam said. 

“I’m not sick. This is just…” Steve shrugged and put his head on the table again.

“Nerves? Stress?” 

“I guess.” 

Sam fetched them both flimsy paper cups of water from the water cooler. Steve drank his, mostly out of reflex. “Are you worried about Bucky?” Sam asked. 

“No. I don’t know.” Steve crushed the empty cup accidentally. “Maybe.” 

“He seemed pretty good on the phone yesterday. I chatted with him for ten minutes without him bringing up those goddamn wings once.” 

“I know.” 

“The Bus really seems to be a good stabilizing influence on him. And you’ll be back on it in less than a week – ”

Steve retched. He pushed himself off his chair onto the floor, hanging his head between his knees to calm his stomach. 

“Jesus. Steve.” Sam slid off his chair so he was kneeling on the floor next to Steve. “I was wrong. It’s not Bucky at all, is it? You’re worried about – ”

Steve was shaking his head. “We can’t talk about this here,” he said. 

“Steve, we’ve got to talk about it. You’re coming to pieces, man. What’s wrong?”

Steve was shaking his head. “Not _here_.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” said Steve, and he felt an abrupt sense of vertigo, as if the ground had fallen away beneath him, “the walls have ears.” 

***

They went to the National Mall, not by the monuments, but the loop past the Smithsonian museums. There weren’t enough streetlamps, and it was very dark, almost deserted, which suited Steve fine. He put his hands in his pockets and walked alongside Sam, not looking at him, and spilled out the story of the last few months: SHIELD, surveillance, Coulson’s treatment of Bucky, Steve’s anxiety (paranoia?), everything. 

It came out rather jumbled, but Sam seemed to be following well, and Steve found his sympathetic attention very calming. “You don’t think I’m trying to blame Coulson for my own failures, do you?” Steve finished, because that worry had been gnawing on him for the past month. Perhaps he was being unfair to Coulson so he wouldn’t have to look at his own flaws. “Maybe Bucky took so long to settle in because I completely fucked up.”

“ _Steve_ ,” said Sam. “No. No, no, no. Coulson’s behavior was completely out of line, and, okay, you haven’t been perfect, but no one is perfect with shit like this. Hell, I’m _trained_ for this and I still fuck up. Most people would have given up on Bucky ages ago, and you stuck it out, and you were right, man. I never thought he’d be doing this well, and he is. It wouldn’t have happened without you. He took a while to settle in because his sense of safety is shot to hell, and I’m sure Coulson being a complete bastard didn’t help.”

“So I’m right to be worried about the way Coulson treats Bucky?”

“Yes. Jesus Christ.” 

“So you see why I need to stay on the Bus,” Steve said.

“What?” said Sam. “No! You need to get the fuck out of SHIELD.” 

“But I have to look after Bucky,” said Steve. “To protect him from Coulson. You said yourself, you agreed with me – ”

“I do agree with you. Coulson’s a good reason for getting Bucky _off_ the Bus, Steve, not for you to stay on it.”

“But he doesn’t want to leave,” Steve said. “He’s got friends there, and – you’re right, he seems so much happier…”

“So you’ll have to change his mind. And the first step for that is for you to get off the Bus.” 

“I can’t abandon him,” Steve objected. 

“Steve.” Sam’s voice had become quite serious. “Your own mental health _has_ to take priority over Bucky. No, listen to me. It’s not being selfish. You are not going to be able to take care of him if you collapse.”

A couple joggers ran past. Steve didn’t speak until they were far away, dark specks against the lights of the World War II memorial. “I really don’t think it’s that bad,” Steve insisted. “I can’t give up on fighting Hydra.” 

“Hydra will still be there to fight once you’re feeling better.”

“What if there’s an emergency?”

“Then they’ll call you back for it. You’ll be a better fighter if you’re not falling apart, Steve.” 

“My fighting is _fine_ ,” Steve said. “It’s – ”

Fighting centered his attention so well that it shut out the sucking whirlpool of anxiety in his brain. The only other thing that worked was when Bucky read to him, now that Bucky let Steve put his head on Bucky’s lap. Sometimes Bucky put his hand over Steve’s eyes, so it was warm and dark and Steve could forget the rest of the world existed, and that was best of all. 

Bucky must have been worried sick about Steve to do that on the Bus in front of Coulson and everybody. 

“You need to get off the Bus,” Sam said. “And a few weeks away from Bucky probably wouldn’t hurt, either. Your boy is made of titanium, Steve. He may not be happy about it, but he’ll be all right.” 

Steve felt suddenly close to choking. “You don’t understand,” he said. “They’re not going to let me leave.” 

“Okay,” said Sam. His voice was very calm. “Let me think.”

They kept walking. They reached the World War II memorial and doubled back to walk past the Smithsonian museums again. 

“Did Coulson say you couldn’t leave?” Sam asked eventually. 

“No.” Steve’s throat tightened more. He swallowed, and swallowed again, and still had trouble breathing. “I haven’t asked.”

“Why not?” 

“Because – I don’t know, because – I don’t know. If I talked to him, and he said no – and anyway I can’t leave without Bucky, and Bucky didn’t want to go, and why make Coulson angry if I couldn’t leave anyway – ”

“But why do you think Coulson won’t let you leave if you ask?” Sam pressed. 

Steve shook his head. He didn’t know; he couldn’t think. 

“What do you think they’re going to do if you try to leave?” Sam asked. 

“Shoot me?” said Steve. 

He had meant it as a rather morbid joke, but it seemed to hang in the air after he said it, right on the cusp of plausibility. “That’s paranoid, right?” he said. “They’re not actually going to shoot me. Right?” 

Not fatally, at least. A non-fatal wound would certainly make their point. 

They probably wouldn’t hurt Steve at all; he was Captain America, he was in the papers, he gave speeches, he was famous. But Bucky – 

“If I try to leave,” Steve said, his voice faltering. “And Bucky’s still on the Bus. If they keep him as a hostage – ” Bucky had been so happy there; Steve would be ruining everything for him, and for nothing – 

“Steve,” said Sam. He stepped in front of Steve, putting his hands on Steve’s shoulders, and it should have been calming but instead it just made things worse. He had been bleeding off some of the anxiety through his feet and now he had to stand still and it just piled up in his throat.

Sam tightened his hands on Steve’s shoulders, squeezing, and oddly that helped. Steve could speak again. “So I’ll just make everything worse if I leave – if I try to leave – because it’s not like it’s going to work – ” The words came out in little bursts. Steve had to pause at the end of each phrase to swallow against the choking sensation in his throat. 

Sam let go. Steve nearly panicked (why had he let go?), but instead Sam put his arms around Steve and hugged him, and Steve was so surprised it took him a few seconds to remember how to hug back. Bucky’s attempts to help didn’t extend to hugging. 

“It’s okay,” Sam said. “It’s going to be okay.” 

Or to telling Steve it would be okay. Bucky radiated the barely-concealed certainty that it would not. 

“I’m just being paranoid, right?” Steve said, strangely relieved. “It’s all in my head.” 

“I have no fucking idea,” Sam said. “Maybe you’re paranoid. Maybe SHIELD really is bugging Georgetown to keep on eye on you, and maybe they really would shoot you if you try to leave. I don’t know, but I know who we can ask.”

“Yeah?” Steve leaned his head gingerly on Sam’s shoulder. 

“Natasha,” Sam said, and Steve thought, _of course_. Why hadn’t he thought of that? “She’ll know how likely it is that they’d actually shoot you.” He let go of Steve, although he kept a hand on Steve’s shoulder to guide him back toward Sam’s car. “And if she thinks it’s likely, then she’ll know how to stop it.” 

***

“Of course they’re not going to shoot you,” Natasha said briskly, stirring her straw energetically in her frappuccino. Natasha had bundled them off to an all-night Starbucks after picking them up, and they had the second floor all to themselves. 

“You’re sure?” said Sam, which was good, because Steve was too embarrassed to open his mouth. He should have known weren’t going to shoot him; he was one of their best assets. What a stupid fucking thing for him to think. 

“Nothing’s certain but death and taxes,” said Natasha. “But this is pretty close. Coulson is sentimental about his team members, even his ex-team members. If he were a little less mawkish about it, I wouldn’t have spent the last three months chasing after Grant Ward and his latest hare-brained redemption scheme.”

She sounded peeved. Steve found it strangely calming. “And Bucky?” he said. “Coulson wouldn’t… hold him hostage or…” It was hard to get the words out, but what the hell, they already knew he was a wreck. He might as well get answers to all his stupid paranoid questions. 

Natasha shook her head. “Bucky’s a member of Coulson’s team now, too. I don’t think it would ever occur to Coulson to use his team members as hostages to each other’s good behavior, and I don’t think the team would stand for it, either.”

“Do you really think so?” Steve said, mostly because he wanted to hear her say it again. 

“Do you think Bucky would have let himself become friends with anyone on Coulson’s team if he thought there was the faintest chance that Coulson might use that against him?” 

“Oh,” said Steve. It felt as if her words had punched the air out of him, and when he breathed in again, it felt like the first deep breath he’d taken for weeks. “Of course not. Oh, fuck, I’m such an idiot.”

“I don’t think being paranoid about SHIELD is stupid,” Sam said. “Remember the time you showed up at my back door because SHIELD was trying to kill you?”

“That was Hydra,” Steve protested.

“Yeah, I’m sure all the loyal SHIELD employees were sitting on their hands refusing to shoot,” Sam scoffed. 

Steve twisted his mug around on the tabletop. He had let Natasha order for him (“You’re not facing this with plain old coffee,” she said) and she had gotten him a zebra mocha. “You always thought I was stupid to rejoin SHIELD.”

“I am struggling so hard not to say _I told you so_ , Steve, please don’t make this any harder for me.” 

Steve stared down into his mug, his face flushing. 

“Steve, I was teasing,” Sam said. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Sorry.”

He could feel Sam and Natasha looking at each other, concerned, and he wished he could melt into the floor the way the whipped cream was melting into the zebra mocha. 

“You’re really down on yourself right now, huh?” Sam said. 

Steve shrugged. He took a sip of the zebra mocha. Lukewarm now, and too sweet. He wondered if he would have liked it if he’d tried it when it was hot. 

“I really think quitting SHIELD will help,” Sam said. 

“Wait,” said Natasha. “Quitting? You’re thinking about quitting? Not just taking a break?”

“I guess that changes the shooting thing,” Steve said. Of course it had been too good to be true.

“No, it doesn’t. Coulson didn’t shoot Ward for betraying everyone, he’s not going to shoot you for quitting. But – Are you going to quit the Avengers? No one else yells at Tony like you do.” 

“I bet you yell at Tony just fine,” Sam told Natasha.

“Yeah, but all he notices is that a beautiful woman is paying attention to him. Not the same as his dad’s hero getting up in his face and telling him he’s an asshole.” 

“I’m not quitting,” Steve said, and they both fell silent. “I, actually I think I’ll be fine to go back to the Bus now.”

Natasha and Sam stared at him. “You’re kidding, right?” Sam said. 

“Not right now, of course. I still have that commencement address at Princeton – ” Assuming Coulson ever let Steve near a stage again, after the speech he’d given at Georgetown. He swallowed a bubble of panic. “But after that.”

“Steve,” said Natasha. “You need a break. Everyone takes a break sometimes, there’s no shame in it. I took three months after Budapest. Clint was out of commission for nearly a year after New York.”

“I am taking a break,” Steve said. “There’s a week before my talk at Princeton. I’ll catch up on sleep and get my head on straight and then I’ll head back, and I’ll be fine.”

“ _Steve_ ,” said Sam. “No. That’s a terrible idea.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because you’re having a nervous breakdown,” Sam said. 

“I’ve been under a lot of stress,” Steve protested. “I needed to talk to someone, and now that I’ve talked to you I’ve realized that I was blowing everything out of proportion – ”

“You thought SHIELD was going to shoot you if you tried to leave,” Natasha said. 

“I thought it was _possible_ ,” Steve snapped. “I didn’t think it was _likely_.” 

“And you’ve only been blowing some things out of proportion,” Sam added. “The way Coulson treats Bucky, you’re right to be concerned about that.”

Natasha lifted her head, questioning, but Sam shook his head a little. 

“You don’t have to make any irrevocable decisions now,” Sam said. “Just take a break. Step back your involvement for a few months. See how you feel about it then.”

“Even Fury took a vacation once,” Natasha chimed in. 

“You’re making that up,” Steve said.

“Hand to God,” said Natasha, lifting her right hand. 

Steve looked down at the dark street below. Cars passed occasionally, their taillights glowing like coals in the black. He was so tired; he wanted to say yes. 

“I can’t abandon Bucky,” he said at last. “And Coulson won’t want us both to leave at once.” 

“We’re not abandoning him,” Natasha said. “You’re just going to let the rest of us look after him for a bit, okay?” 

Steve’s eyes filled with tears again. There were other people who loved Bucky now: Steve didn’t have to look after him all on his own. He had to blow his nose on a napkin. 

“It’s about time I bring Coulson up to date on Ward’s newest shenanigans anyway,” Natasha said, businesslike. “And I haven’t seen Bobbi for ages.” She tossed her empty frappuccino cup across the store into a wastebasket. 

“Bucky’s going to hate me,” Steve said. 

“Of course he will,” Natasha said. “When Clint pulled this stunt on me, I nearly killed him with a throwing star when he got back.” 

Steve stared at her. 

“But I was much less mature than Bucky is,” Natasha added.

“Yeah,” said Steve. “That Bucky. He’s so mature.” 

Natasha put a hand on Steve’s arm, and it startled him, because she was not a touchy-feely person outside of mission requirements. “Listen, Steve,” she said. “Sometimes you have to put yourself first. That’s how you survive.” 

Steve took another sip of the zebra mocha. “My apartment’s sublet until the end of the month,” he said. It was a last-ditch defense. “I don’t have anywhere to stay.” 

“You’ll stay with me,” Sam said. 

Steve was mortified. It must have sounded like he was fishing for the invitation. “I can’t impose on you like that.”

“You wouldn’t be imposing, dumbass. I’ve been planning to paint some of those rooms since I bought the place, and now you’re going to help, so don’t think you’re getting the better end of the bargain, either,” Sam said. 

Steve was silent, staring at the dregs of chocolate in his cup. Somehow he had finished the drink.

“Bucky won’t hate you forever,” Natasha added. “And he’ll hate you much less in the long run once he’s had a chance to prove to himself he doesn’t need you.” 

Steve didn’t think that Bucky was under any illusion that he needed Steve; not after he’d spent two months trying to prop up Steve’s collapsing mental health. 

Probably Bucky would be better off on his own, anyway. 

“Okay,” Steve said. “I’ll ask Coulson for a break.” 

***

Steve used to bring Bucky to SHIELD’s new DC headquarters three times a week for his therapy sessions. It was a cramped office building, with thick walls and few windows, but Steve had nonetheless grown rather fond of it: it was his respite. 

It was fortunate that he found the building calming, because Coulson looked exasperated. 

Not because of the speech. Coulson either hadn’t seen the speech or didn’t give a fuck about it. Maybe it didn’t even occur to him that any reference to truth and freedom could possibly be a criticism of SHIELD. 

Because Steve had asked him for a break. 

“You just had five months off,” Coulson objected. 

“What the – ” Steve managed to swallow the word _fuck_. “What are you talking about?”

“Agent Barnes’ three month suspension ended up lasting from August to December, and you only went on one mission with us in that time.”

“That wasn’t a break! I was looking after Bucky, Coulson, that’s exhausting.” 

He wished, even as it left his mouth, that he hadn’t said it. Bucky would be very hurt if he heard it, even though he wasn’t half as exhausting now. 

“I need you here,” Coulson said. 

“No, you really don’t!” Steve said. “Not on the Bus. Not every day. Hydra’s not as dangerous as they were two years ago – ”

“That’s wishful thinking,” Coulson said. 

“I don’t mean that they’re not dangerous,” Steve said. “I mean that two years ago we were all afraid they were going to annihilate SHIELD and take over the planet, and now that seems much less likely.” 

“I wish I shared your optimism.”

Steve was baffled. “That’s not optimism, Coulson, that’s a realistic assessment of the situation,” he said. 

Coulson folded his arms across his chest. “Based on the information you know, I suppose it seems that way.” 

“I know what you’ve told me,” Steve said, struggling to keep his voice level. “And I know you can’t tell me everything, and I respect the need to keep some information under wraps – ” Did he really, though? “Occasionally. Secrecy is a tool, but it ought to be used sparingly. Hydra couldn’t have gotten so far without so many dark corners to fester in.” 

“Already working on your next speech, I see.”

Steve clenched his jaw. Last time he tried to discuss SHIELD policy with Coulson, Coulson derailed the conversation completely, and Steve wasn’t going to let him get away with it this time. “If Hydra is still poised to destroy us all, just like they were after SHIELD fell, then you can’t keep that secret, Coulson. Everyone on your team – no, everyone in SHIELD needs to know it.” 

“And let Hydra know exactly what we know about them? Do you really believe we’ve rooted out all the Hydra spies in SHIELD?” Coulson asked. He looked suddenly very tired, and he lifted his hand to rub at his face. “Or have you been too busy thinking about what’s wrong with SHIELD to remember Hydra at all?”

It felt like the first time Steve had seen Coulson in months, Coulson as a person rather than an avatar of everything wrong with SHIELD. He had deep shadows under his eyes, deep-grooved lines in his forehead and around his eyes. Grief and worry and long hours had aged him. 

Steve felt suddenly an odd mixture of sympathy and fear. “Of course I remember Hydra,” he said. Impulsively, he added, “Talk to me, Coulson. Or not me, it doesn’t have to be me. Talk to May, talk to Skye, talk to General Talbot, talk to _someone_. Don’t try to keep it all in your head, Coulson, keeping things secret just makes them grow bigger and worse until you lose all perspective, and it will drive you nuts.” 

“Thank you for your expert psychological opinion, Captain Rogers,” Coulson said. 

“I’m speaking from experience,” Steve snapped. “Why do you think I’m having a nervous breakdown?” 

Coulson didn’t reply, but for the first time, his face softened. When he spoke again, his voice was gentler. “I suppose,” he said, “you would prefer Agent Barnes to remain on the Bus while you take three months leave to recuperate.” 

“You mean you’d prefer him to stay,” Steve said. 

“I need him,” Coulson said. “But I’m not going to insist.” 

“I – ” Steve’s brain seemed to splinter. He had assumed that Coulson would insist that Bucky stay, because if Coulson had insisted, Steve never would have had to admit to himself that he wanted time away from Bucky. He wasn’t exhausting anymore, but he was still became the center of Steve’s universe whenever they were together, and Steve needed to get away. Regain a sense of perspective. 

Abandon Bucky. 

Maybe Judas Iscariot took the thirty pieces of silver because he couldn’t handle the stress. 

“Agent Barnes,” Coulson said, “has a gift for attracting partisans. If I did anything untoward to him, my crew would probably rise up as one and toss me bodily off the Bus.”

“I doubt it,” Steve said, but he was glad Coulson had said it, anyway. “They love you.” 

“Skye would post the video of the time I danced the funky chicken to the SHIELD intranet,” Coulson said. 

Steve knew he was supposed to smile at that, but he couldn’t. “You’ll look after him?”

“We will.” 

A host of things to say crowded at Steve’s mouth. He swallowed most of them – Bucky was perfectly capable of letting the whole world know he hated coconut – and settled for saying, “I want to talk to him once a week. I can call from a SHIELD facility to make sure it’s a secure line.” 

Coulson considered, then nodded. “All right.” 

“And I’d better talk to him now,” Steve said. “To explain that I’m leaving.” 

“Yes,” said Coulson. “He’ll take it better coming from you.” 

Steve didn’t think Bucky was going to take this very well coming from anyone. 

The screen went black, but only briefly. When it lit up again, Bucky was sitting, or rather sprawling, in Coulson’s office chair, swinging it in lazy circles. “I loved your speech,” he announced. “Did you know it has over twenty thousand hits on Youtube already? We’re laying bets on when it’ll hit a hundred thousand.”

“We?” said Steve.

“The whole Bus,” Bucky said. “Well, not Coulson.” A slight pause as his eyes flickered over Steve’s face. “I bet on noon. You look good in that dumbass uniform, it’ll bring in a lot of viewers.” Bucky gave the chair another spin, then stuck out his foot to stop it so he was facing Steve. “Did any co-eds ask you to sign their chests?” 

“I’m not coming back to the Bus,” Steve blurted, because he couldn’t face Bucky’s cheerfulness anymore. 

Bucky went suddenly quite still, his eyes fastened on Steve’s face. “Coulson didn’t like your speech,” he said, half-statement and half-question, and Steve realized that even if no one else on the Bus noticed, Bucky had seen the criticism of SHIELD in Steve’s speech. He had started their conversation by saying he loved it so Steve would know that Bucky was on his side, never mind how mad Coulson might be. 

“God, I love you so much,” Steve said. 

That was much too heartfelt. Bucky’s eyes dilated, very visible on the comscreen, which made everyone larger than life-size. “Are they sending you to the Playground?” Bucky asked. 

“No, no, nothing like that,” Steve reassured him. “I’ll be staying with Sam, actually, till the subletters move out of my apartment.”

Bucky, to Steve’s astonishment, relaxed. “So you won’t be locked up,” he said. He pushed off the floor to give the chair another slow spin, drawing his legs up onto the chair as it turned. He didn’t quite fit; his knees splayed out awkwardly. “You’ll call? You’ll be allowed to talk to us sometimes?”

Steve had not expected him to be so calm. “Once a week,” he said. He felt, absurdly, a little hurt that Bucky was taking this so well, and when he recognized the feeling he had to laugh at himself a little. 

“Will Coulson let you back before your birthday?” Bucky asked. The chair was slowing down, and he gave another push to set it spinning again. “’Cause Skye and Simmons have a whole Pinterest page devoted to Fourth of July shit for your party, and I still owe you a birthday present for last year. How long did Coulson suspend you, exactly?”

Then Steve got it. Bucky thought this was Coulson’s fault; he wouldn’t want to give Coulson the satisfaction of seeing him upset. He would behave very, very well the whole time Steve was gone, and be bright and charming during their phone calls, and not be mad at Steve at all, because it wasn’t Steve’s fault.

“Coulson didn’t suspend me,” Steve said. 

Bucky put out a foot to stop the chair spinning. His eyes fastened on Steve’s face. “He _fired_ you?” he said,

“No,” said Steve. “It’s medical leave. Three months.” 

Bucky’s right hand pressed against the tabletop. “But we’ve been working on it,” he said. “We’ve been working on all that, Steve. Wasn’t I doing okay?”

“Yeah, Buck, you were. You were fine, you were great. I just needed a break, so I asked Coulson for some time off.”

Bucky went completely still. “And he said yes?”

“Yeah.” 

“He’s letting you?”

“Yes.” 

Bucky turned the chair around abruptly, so he faced away from Steve. Steve could see the back of the chair and Bucky’s right hand clenched on the arm. “He’s letting you go,” Bucky said.

“Yes, Buck.” 

“ _Why_?”

“I guess he figured if he didn’t, I might collapse when SHIELD really needs me,” Steve said. 

Bucky didn’t respond. His fingers twitched on the chair arm. 

“It’s just three months,” Steve said, and he tried not to sound gentle, because Bucky hated that. “I just needed a break.” 

Bucky swung the chair back around. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded. 

The unfairness of the question took Steve’s breath away. “I did tell you. You said you wanted to stay.”

“I do. But you didn’t tell me you were gonna run _away_.”

“For Christ’s sake, Buck, I’m not running away. I asked Coulson for permission.” 

“I can’t believe he let you go,” Bucky said, and he kicked the chair away from the table. It tilted crazily on the carpet, almost falling. “I can’t believe he let you _go_.” Bucky looked up sharply, inspecting Steve’s face. “I guess he insisted you had to leave me behind.” 

“No,” Steve said quietly. Bucky’s face took on the automaton look, expressionless and dead. “I need a break.” 

Bucky considered Steve with the meticulous dissecting look that always made Steve’s skin crawl. He didn’t speak. 

“It’s only three months, Buck,” Steve said. “We’ll talk every week.”

“Why?” 

“Because I’ll miss you.” 

Bucky blinked. Steve couldn’t tell if that was a reaction or not. “Who will look after you if you go away?”

“I’ll be staying with Sam.” 

“This is Sam’s fault,” Bucky said. He began to spin the chair, kicking it faster and faster. The movement was quite at odds with the detached quality of his voice. “He’s always hated me.” 

“No,” Steve protested. 

“He thinks I’m bad for you. He thinks you’d be better off without me.” His voice took on a strange note, horrified but proud, like a bomber walking through the rubble after a raid. “And he’s right,” Bucky said. “I broke you.” 

“No! This isn’t your fault either. It’s not Sam’s fault or Coulson’s fault, it’s _my_ fault. I shouldn’t have let you talk me out of leaving in the first place. It never should have gotten this bad.” 

“Like an egg,” Bucky said. The chair spun so fast that his voice cut in and out as he spoke. “Like Grisha and Andrushka and Sasha, like everyone. I break everything I touch, that’s why I’m the best fucking assassin on the planet. Steve – ”

The chair spun out of control. It tipped over, and Bucky spilled out. As he rolled back to his feet, he snatched the blue paperweight off Coulson’s desk and hurled it at the screen. 

The screen shattered, like the glass in the Valkyrie’s cockpit had shattered when it hit the water. Steve flinched away, but of course there were no shards: it was the screen on the other end that had broken. The image flickered, fuzzy and distorted by a thousand cracks, and then the screen went black. 

Bucky’s voice floated out of the blackness. It sounded very far away. “Always knew I’d find the end of the line.”


End file.
